Something to do with Marketing not liking it?”
“Yes. Didn’t she move to another publishing house or something?” Joanna asked.
“That’s right,” Butch said. ‘And this morning she called Drew to see if Serve and Protect is still available. Drew is pretty sure she’s going to make an offer after all.”
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“Butch, that’s wonderful!” Joanna exclaimed. “When will you know?”
“Probably sometime later this week.”
Edith stirred. “What’s wonderful?” she asked.
“I have to go, Butch,” Joanna said. “Congratulations. We’ll talk more later. That was my husband calling,” Joanna explained to Edith, once she was off the phone “He just had some very good news. He’s written a book, and someone may be interested in buying it.”
“I’m glad,” Edith said. “It’s nice to hear that someone has good news.”
Looking at Edith Mossman’s weary, grief-ravaged face, Joanna was immediately awash in guilt and resolve as well. Carol Mossman had been murdered, taking with her huge chunks of her grandmother’s heart.
We’ll find out who did it, Joanna vowed silently. I promise you that.
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Twenty minutes later, having escorted Edith Mossman to her Ferndale Retirement Center apartment, Joanna presented herself at the reception desk in the lobby. “Can you tell me the room number for Irma Mahilich?” she asked.
“One forty-one,” the receptionist answered without looking up. “But Irma’s not in her room. She’s over there, working a jigsaw puzzle.”
Joanna glanced around the lobby. The attractively furnished and brightly carpeted room resembled an upscale hotel lobby rather than what Joanna would have expected in an assisted-living facility. Several seating areas were ranged around the reception desk. A large-screen television blared unwatched in one of them. Two women, both in wheelchairs, sat reading newspapers in another. In a third-one lined with book-laden shelves-a solitary woman sat hunched over the bare outline of a round jigsaw puzzle so large that, once completed, it would
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cover much of the massive table. It wasn’t until Joanna approached the table that she realized the woman was studying the pieces with absolute intensity and with the aid of a handheld magnifying glass.
“Mrs. Mahilich?” Joanna asked.
Irma Mahilich’s shoulders were stooped. Thinning white hair stood on end in a flyaway drift. She wore dentures, but the lower plate was missing. The bottom left-hand portion of her mouth turned down, betraying the lingering effects of a stroke.
“Yes,” Irma said, lowering the magnifying glass. “Who are you?”
“I’m Sheriff Brady, Sheriff Joanna Brady.”
“That’s right. I remember now. Aren’t you D. . Lathrop’s little girl?” Irma asked, peering up at her visitor.
Surprised, Joanna answered, “Yes. He was my father.”
“I’m the one who hired him to work for the company, you know, back when I was running the PD employment office. When he showed up there, your father had never done a lick of work in a mine. Everybody else said he wouldn’t last, but I had a good feeling about him. And he stuck in there-right up until he decided to go into law enforcement.
When he ran for office, I was proud to vote for him. Did that every time he ran.
D. . Lathrop was a nice young man. It’s a shame he got killed the way he did. Now, what do you want?”
Joanna was taken aback, both by Irma Mahilich’s abrupt manner as well as by her unexpectedly detailed memories of D. . Lathrop.
“I suppose you’re here to ask me more questions,” Irma continued. “They send that social worker around from time to time to bother me. She’s so young she looks like she should still be in high school. She asks me things like who’s the president of the
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United States and other such nonsense. I don’t know who the president is because I don’t care anymore. Those politicians are all just alike anyway. But it’s like she’s trying to find out how much I know about what’s going on around me. If I knew everything, then I wouldn’t need to be in a place like this, now would I?”
“No,” Joanna agreed. “I don’t suppose you would.”
“So what do you want?” Irma demanded again. “For Pete’s sake, spit it out, girl.
And while you’re at it, have a seat. I don’t like it when people hover over me.”
Joanna sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table with a clear view of the lid to the two-thousand-piece puzzle that featured a stained-glass window in brilliant primary colors-jewel-tone blues, greens, reds, and yellows. Just looking at the tiny, intricate pieces was enough to give Joanna a headache. The round-edged border was all in place but not much else.
“We’re working on a case,” Joanna said quietly. ‘A homicide case. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“What homicide?” Irma asked. “Somebody here?”
“No.”
